


Interstice

by Pat_Jacquerie (Pat_Nussman)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 17:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14774205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pat_Nussman/pseuds/Pat_Jacquerie
Summary: On the run from Servalan, trapped in the luxury suite of a casino-hotel, Avon and Cally must find some way to pass the time.





	Interstice

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I wrote this just a bit after ["Renaissance"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656887) and it's at a similar level of explicit sex…that is, not very much (it, too, was published in _Straight Blake's #1_ ). To tell the truth, I'm not even very satisfied with the relationship part of this story anymore, but some of the details of the setup do continue to please me. Someday, I'd like to do an Avon/Tarrant using this situation. Okay, so I'll admit it…I have a weakness for Jacuzzis..

"Avon, there's a pool in the middle of this room."

The man thus addressed wandered over to regard the object indicated with an interested gaze. "So there is." He bent down to manipulate the gold-inlaid controls. Water jets sprang into life, turning the still pond of roseate marble into a frothing white-capped whirlpool. "A talented pool."

Cally bit her lip sternly and walked over to the room's other prominent feature. "And, Avon?"

"Mmmm?" He was still studying the pool with contemplative interest.

"The bed. There's a mirror over it." Mirth threatened to overtake her voice. She put a stern rein on her laughter. "Whatever could that be for?" Not to mention the bed itself, which was round in shape, opulent in design, and more than sufficient to hold the crew of _Liberator_ , with room to spare for the entire contents of a Federation troop carrier.

As if reluctantly, Avon left the fascinations of the pool to survey the gold-veined mirror and red-draped bed below. "I can't imagine." He didn't laugh, not quite, but his voice had dropped and an undercurrent of amusement ran in its husky depths.

Cally circled the bed to stand just opposite him, to better see the lines of repressed mirth in his face, the barely-hidden sparkle in his clear, dark eyes. "You could not even hazard a guess?" she persisted.

"Well, as to that…" The control broke, if just briefly, as the edges of his lips tilted upward and laughter lines gathered at the corners of his eyes.

Cally couldn't help it. She laughed aloud, as much with the joy of seeing Avon so relaxed as in reaction to the inherent ridiculousness of the situation. That they, two of the more wanted outlaws in the galaxy, should be holed up in all this tasteless opulence while Servalan searched every back alley in the planet for them….

"This is a casino, then? Like in Freedom City?"

"Not quite as tasteless." He looked around, one eyebrow quirked. "Almost, but not quite. Not quite so dishonest."

"And are all the rooms this…" She threw an expressive glance around the red and gold chamber.

"Not nearly. This is a room set aside for 'high rollers'--wealthy patrons expected to lose considerable cash. High roller rooms are also high-security rooms, which is why I was at such pains to convince the management that I fell into just that particular category."

Indeed. Cally cocked an eyebrow at Avon's clothing. The black velvet and leather--laced, rather than studded with silver--was rich in cut and obviously expensive in material. He looked like a somber, exotic jewel cocooned in the gaudy magnificence of their surroundings.

"And now--" With obvious reluctance, he turned his back on the fascinations of bed, mirror, and pond. "--I should go down and convince them of the correctness of their surmise. Fortunate that we have _Liberator_ 's treasure room to draw from." He scooped up the jewels they had brought down in one smooth gesture. "I imagine the management will be more than happy to change these into the local currency."

"Avon. Are you sure you should go down? Servalan…".

"Is rooting around every rubbish heap in the delta section of this charming metropolis. We can only hope something unfortunate happens to her latest designer creation in the process."

Satisfaction was reflected in both light and dark eyes. Both had gone to considerable bother to plant just that information in Madame President's intelligence operation. Eventually, Servalan would tire of Sagev's back alleys and Tarrant could bring _Liberator_ back into orbit. In the meantime…

"Monitor Orac for any change in Servalan's search pattern. I'll be in the casino just long enough to enrich the locals. And Cally…" He stopped at the door, a gleam--she could of sworn it was of mischief--in the deep-set eyes. With a slight gesture, he indicated the gold lame that almost clothed Cally's slim form. "While I'm gone you might want to change into something more comfortable."

Cally laughed at the swiftly closed door.

*

Something 'more comfortable' was Cally's own skin. She wanted to investigate that fascinating pool. Though she still couldn't quite fathom why the management chose to place it in the middle of the bedroom, she was still interested by its amenities.

Carefully, she hung up the gold dress. She was unused to spending so much for clothing and still more unaccustomed to the glances she had collected while not quite wearing it. Humans were so bound up with flesh.

Although there were times, these last months, when she wondered if humans didn't have the right idea, after all. However, Cally reflected, as she looked at the ankle-deep carpet under her bare feet, there were also times when humans took this sensuality theme just a trifle too far.

Not Avon, though. No, he took it just far enough.

She had neither wanted nor expected any relationship between them, other than mere friendship. Nor, she could swear, had Avon. It was simply that she had felt so alone, so bound up in her silence. As in his different way, had he. With Avon, she had learned the telepathy of touch, the communication of nerves and flesh.

And he, he had learned to sleep without nightmares.

None of the crew knew. Except perhaps Vila, who saw so much and said so much, none of it to any point. Their secret, if indeed he knew, was safe in his babbling mouth.

What Avon himself thought of their on-again, off-again relationship, not even she could guess.

Sighing, Cally bent over to examine the pool's controls. One could, she noted, adjust the pool for warmth or coolness, as well as for the strength and direction of the water jets. Clever. Making some minor adjustments, she slipped into the miniature pond, the warm waters surrounding and caressing her like her half-remembered mechanical womb.

A water-proof cushion lay conveniently to hand. She tucked it under her head, leaning back. Soft, barely discernible music played through hidden speakers, some terran classical air, rich and romantic in theme, oddly complimented by the muted hiss of water and Orac's electronic hum. Above her, the red velvet draperies on the ceiling swung gently to the tune of the recycled air.

Cally relaxed, listening to the soft cadence of music, hypnotized by her surroundings. And though she saw red velvet above her, her dreams were of black and silver.

*

The soft swish of the door barely roused her. The security here was too good; it had to be Avon and Avon wouldn't mind if she floated just a little longer in this warm, dream-washed world.

He came just to the periphery of his vision, his skin dampened from the heat of the casino floor, his hair just a trifle less smoothed down than was usual. She tilted her head back to smile at him, upside down. "What is that?"

Avon carried a bottle in each hand, identically long and slender and green, with a gathering of gold foil at their necks. Long-stemmed glasses threaded through the fingers not engaged with the bottles. 

"Champagne." He carefully settled the bottles on the ledge of the pool, arranging the glasses beside them. "From Earth. Expensive and rare. Compliments of the management."

She watched him remove the foil from the end of one bottle, unwinding a complex of wiring that covered the cork beneath. "You must have lost a lot of credits."

The management was duly impressed." He freed the cork of its wiring dexterously, then placed both thumbs beneath the wide lips of the cork. "Enough so that our security will remain intact for so long as we care to stay."

The cork gently popped from place and a faint white cloud issued from the neck of the bottle. "Effervescent," Avon explained. He poured a generous portion into one of the glasses, where it glowed pale golden in the subdued light, small bubbles trailing up its long, fluted length. "Try it."

She accepted the glass and sipped. And made a face.

"No one likes it the first time, I understand. Try again." Avon disposed himself comfortably at the pool's edge, supported on one outstretched arm, tasting appreciatively of his own portion of the wine.

She tried again. Better this time, much better. Cally sipped at the champagne, enjoying the contrast between the cool dryness of the wine and the moist warmth of the churning pool. The music played on in the background, variations on a single theme. She slipped in and out of reality, half-dreaming and relaxed, hardly noticing as Avon refilled her glass and broached the second bottle.

Time passed unnoticed.

Then she was half-roused by the touch of warm fingers against her neck and shoulders, caressing and massaging.

"You're still a trifle tense."

Slitting open her eyes, she found Avon's face intriguingly inverted above her. "You'll get your clothes wet," she said inconsequentially.

"No matter." His hands continued to work alchemy against skin and muscle. She became more and less relaxed. More dreamy and yet more aware. 

"'License my wandering hands…'" His voice lowered to that pitch that made her nerves shiver and the pit of her stomach ache with unappeased longing.

"What?" She laid her hands lightly upon his, not to stay his touch, but in inquiry.

"An ancient poem. From Earth, like the champagne." His lips had descended to a level with her ear, his breath a caress in itself against the sensitive whorls and channels of ear and lobe. "'…And let them go, before, behind, between, above, below. Oh, my America. My new-found-land…'"

"What is America?" She didn't care. But she had to speak to prevent herself from exploding, from melting completely under the warm, liquid impetus of his of his roaming fingers. 

"I'm not sure. A place on Earth." He seemed unaware of the contradictions of his own statements.

"Your clothing will be wet," she repeated. It was very expensive clothing, she remembered vaguely, and really should not be ruined.

"Immaterial." His dark head was bent over her. She could feel the smile in her hair, a half-distracted reaction to the pun. But he did remove his jacket. She could feel the silk of the black shirt underneath, counterpointed by the skin at its open neck.

He lifted her partially from the embrace of the water to his own, gaining better access to the slender curves of her body. She lay against him for balance, trying to breathe, trying to think. His remaining clothing would truly be drenched by now. Already, the wet silk clung to her back, damply erotic.

"Avon." She flung a hand backward, trying to grasp at his shoulder as his hands slipped further down from the slight rise of her breasts, over her flat stomach, and below… _"Avon."_

__

__

Oh, he knew how to touch her now. Had never been fumbling, not Avon. But familiarity bred, not contempt as she had been told, but rather an increased fiery pleasure, branch heaped upon flaming branch, as they learned the ways of one another's bodies, the paths that brought the most intensity of desire.

A sharp pang of disappointment stung her as he lowered her back into the water. "Avon…?" Speech halted, strangled at its source, as he arranged her body into an exact alignment, moved the angle of her outstretched legs. She hadn't realized that water jets could be used for just that purpose. It--really--wasn't--quite--decent. A long, half-anguished cry escaped her, an almost-whimper.

Leaning down beside her, Avon let his hand stray in and out of the hard stream of water…teasing, playing, intensifying. He must be quite drenched by now. She wanted to see him thus, see the black silk cling to his broadly muscled shoulders, the strong, wide chest. But she couldn't seem to force her eyes open.

His lips joined the concert now, head bending at an angle around her shoulder so he might reach her breast, mouth gently encircling the tip, tongue lightly teasing. Trembling under his touch, she longed to touch him in turn. She couldn't quite reach.

It wasn't fair, really it wasn't. But any indignation was drowned in the tide of sensation.

He adjusted her body again. She cried out. It was almost too much: the hard, throbbing rush of yielding water, the probing touch of his fingers, knowing the exact secret spots to touch amongst the mysterious folds of female flesh. The lightest brush here, a firmer, steady rhythm there, pushing her higher on ascending, then receding, waves of feeling. Taking her to new brinks, yet over no edge.

Her head twisted on the damp cushion, fingers clasping and unclasping fruitlessly over handfuls of churning water.

Then, as she thought she could stand it no longer, she was out of the water, clasped against the embrace of wet silk. Being carried effortlessly to the endless expanse of red velvet bed.

"Now." She was down, a light, gentle landing, staring at her naked, glistening self reflect down from the gold-veined mirror. Avon's voice tried at steadiness, failed. "We'll find out the purpose of this mirror."

*

Their images were doubled, seen below in fleshy reality, above in hazy fantasy. Avon had shed his dampened clothes and joined her on t he wide crimson bed. She could see their tangled limbs reflected back at them, her form pale and delicate against his more thickly-muscled, darker frame. The midnight of his bent head fascinated her, tilted over the whiteness of her breast, the sight somehow doubling feelings as well as mere image.

She could touch him now, explore the deep musculature of his shoulders, the cording that traced the strong line of his neck. Could ruffle the thick hair surely too soft and rich to belong to any human male. And she could search out those places that brought him pleasure, places she knew as he knew hers, touches that could pierce the walls of his iron control.

He had held her hands down often enough, in sweet, erotic punishment for just that knowledge.

His lips wandered upward as his hands wandered down, his mouth finding the sensitive spots on the curve of her neck, as Cally's hands had sought the places on his moments before. She set her own hands to wander anew and she could see, doubled once again, the ripple of tension that disturbed the smooth expanse of his back.

A deep voice whispered husky warnings in her ear.

But she paid him no heed. Her mind was too full of fire the strength, the desire she held captive in her hand. She traced the contours of that desire, sensing the fine trembling in his body increase, his much-vaunted control creaking under the strain. Flinging her other arm around his shoulders, she held him fiercely close, drinking through her pores the fire that matched her own.

And he stoked the fire with his touch, as well, moving over portions of her too exquisitely sensitive for touch to be borne, but that begged for that touch nonetheless. His fingers were inexorable, maddening, pushing her to heights over which she had no control.

She released him from the captivity of her hand to that of her body, sending him home to her warm, damp embrace. They were one. This, then, was the telepathy of the human spirit, flesh against flesh, straining to become one, a lambent fire of nerve endings that burnt in the other's very soul. His damp flesh against hers, his ragged breathing in her ear, was a communication of the body that seared through to the mind.

She wanted more.

Clasping both arms around his shoulders, she pushed up against him, wanting harder, faster, further. His face swum in her vision, hard angles softened, but his eyes more dark and intent that before. She shuddered, pulling him within her once again, absorbing the essence that was Avon into her very core.

Then it happened.

The miracle she could neither explain nor describe, no matter how deep her meditation. She opened her eyes and watched it happen to herself, as if at some incredible distance. Her own face, tilted back against the cushions, a delicate flush against bright crimson. Her own body, shaking in rhythmic spasms, prisoner to a rapture too pure for the mind to comprehend. 

She closed her eyes again and let it come, even as she felt the body and spirit entwined with hers reach its own unknowable plateau of ecstasy.

Darkness took her, washed over with the brilliance of the stars.

*

He looked so relaxed. 

He lay on his back, one leg bent, gazing meditatively up into the gold-veined haziness of the mirror. Not at himself. Or even just at her. But at them. The soft light of the room, imitation torchlight, washed a soft glow over his naked skin, picked up the highlights from his dark hair. She could have lay there a day and a night watching him, so totally Avon, and yet so totally removed from the tense Avon of _Liberator_ , the man of constant guard.

He stretched unselfconsciously, like a panther or whatever Earth animal it was that was so sinuously, yet masculinely, graceful. "So. Now we know the purpose of the mirror."

Cally smiled and, daringly, took a strand of dark hair to twist around one finger. "Now we know."

"The question is…" He seemed to ponder solemnly. "How long Servalan will continue her search for us." The almost boyish glint in his eyes betrayed him.

"Or," Cally supplied, "how long we can convince Tarrant that Servalan is searching for us and that it is therefore unsafe to bring _Liberator_ into teleport range, my--" She bit off the forbidden word that rose to her lips: _My love._

__

__

Avon didn't notice or affected not to, which in the end was the same. Their truce would continue, the communion to which neither would nor could admit. She watched as she swung off the bed with one lazy movement, crossing the thick, spring carpeting to where Orac sat quietly humming his electronic melodies. 

"Orac. Send a message to _Liberator_. Tell Tarrant we'll be 'occupied'," he paused, sending her back a smile like sunlight, "for…several days."

Cally smiled back. Several days would be about right. There were, after all, other amenities to this lavish suite they hadn't even begun to explore.

And she intended to make use of them all before they were done.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note, Again: It didn't occur to me until quite awhile after I wrote this story how much of an eyeful (and earful) Orac was getting. Oh, well, it probably appreciated the addition to its knowledge banks….


End file.
